I don't know what to title my poems anymore

If it could be some form of consolation

To make you feel a little good about yourself

It’s not that you said certain things wrong

Or that I’m not someone that you deserve

It’s just that the magic goes away

With the proclamation of love

It could be that I’m of a fickle mind

And I don’t really think things through

I don’t mean to be unkind,

But can I un-choose you?

Perhaps it doesn’t take effect on me

That words have weight

And that do-overs don’t come without

Unscathed egos and unrealized gratifications

I guess I'm a little aversive to dependence
and I'm addicted to
the solitude after all.

it’s something about the cease of thrill

The complacence

The reassurance

The security

The closure

The illusory forever-ness

The stagnancy

That comes with the emotionally-charged declaration

Forgive me for being the cynic

Believer of the absurd

But it really is the end of the magic

When I say those words


Perhaps I chose the lesser evil

Letting myself rendered paralyzed by dilemmas

Than going to the next level

And risk falling from a higher precipice



Perhaps one day I’d give you the satisfaction

Of seeing me look back in regret

And wish that I’d had kept the fire burning

When you started it.